The Girl in the Wall Page 6

  Ravi glances at Hudson, his face slightly flushed. All the guys are talking just a bit too loudly and not quite looking at Hudson. I realize they are starstruck, which is kind of funny because they usually walk around like rock stars themselves. It’s also strange to realize that I stopped thinking about Hudson as a rock star hours ago.

  Ravi takes a mini spring roll and eats it. “These aren’t bad,” he says, his voice just slightly higher than usual.

  Ravi is one of those guys who gets off on risk, who does every extreme sport there is, and who’s broken like twelve bones. The fact that his face is tight, that his hands are shaky, makes the knots in my stomach tighten.

  “Sweet potato biscuits are better,” Hudson says to me with a grin.

  It’s almost like he knows I need distraction. Though I’m probably reading too much into it, he’s probably just starving and excited to eat.

  Ella raises her eyebrows and I see the guys exchange looks. I guess they’re surprised that of anyone he could talk to, Hudson chose me. I mean, if I hadn’t told him about the phone who knows if we’d still be hanging out, but they don’t know that.

  The agent in the doorway shifts and we all glance over. The knots in my stomach tighten but I guess she was just stretching because she doesn’t say anything. Still, the air in the room feels different. Ella clears her throat and Trevor pulls out a sushi tray.

  “I guess we’ll just bring this out,” he says.

  The three of them head out, Ella casting one last look at Hudson, then a bleaker glance at the agents.

  “I bet I can find something in here,” Hudson says, walking over to the fridge.

  I pick up a stalk of endive with blue cheese and shaved apple. I’m curious what Hudson will come up with but I still feel too anxious to think about eating very much.

  “Victory,” he says happily, emerging from the fridge with a yellow plastic package.

  He clearly doesn’t have the same problem. What is it with guys and food?

  I stifle a laugh when I realize what he’s holding.

  “That’s Mr. Barett’s guilty pleasure,” I say.

  But as soon as I say his name there’s a weird hollowness in my stomach. Because Mr. Barett will never eat a midnight baloney sandwich again.

  “I thank him for it,” Hudson says.

  I hear a noise in the doorway and we turn again. Another agent has arrived and the two of them start talking in low voices. For a few moments I wait, to see if there’s some kind of problem, but it seems like they’re just passing time. Which is actually kind of a relief because I don’t feel quite as watched.

  “All the gourmet food here and you’re really going to eat baloney?” I ask Hudson.

  “Baloney is quality food,” he says, as he pulls on the package. It’s hard to open without a utensil but he manages.

  “I can think of a lot of food experts who would dispute that,” I say.

  “They’d be dead wrong.” He flashes me a grin. “I’m making you a sandwich too.”

  He is back at the fridge taking out lettuce, mayo, sliced cheddar, and a loaf of bread. I watch him for a moment, then notice the vase of lilacs resting on the side of the counter. I reach out and run my hand over one feathery bloom.

  “You like lilacs?” Hudson asks, laying slices of cheese on the bread.

  “They’re my favorite,” I say, leaning in to inhale their heavenly scent. It feels so good to stop thinking about the agents and Ariel and everything going on around us. I know it won’t last but I wish it could.

  Hudson whips up the sandwiches, slathering an appalling amount of mayo on the bread (which he spreads with a folded piece of bread because we can’t open a drawer for a knife), and piling each sandwich with towers of baloney. He adds lettuce and with a flourish of triumph, passes me mine on one of the small plates piled up next to the trays of food.

  I look at it unsure how to start. It looks way too big to bite as is. “I think I might need a fork or something.”

  Hudson scoffs. “You rich folks and your crazy ideas,” he says, wrapping his hands around his sandwich. “It’s simple. It’s a sandwich and you eat it with your hands.”

  “You’re rich,” I point out.

  His face seems to crumple the tiniest bit. “I guess.”

  I think about the fact that his money was earned on a lie and how much that clearly bothers him. I can think of a hundred people who couldn’t care less how their families got rich. And I realize I like the fact that he does care.

  “So are you going to show me how to eat this thing or what?” I ask.

  He grins and then defying both odds and gravity he manages to get the thing into his mouth and takes a huge bite.

  I carefully pick up my sandwich. A slice of baloney slithers out the back but I get the rest of it up and stuff as much as I can into my mouth.

  “There you go,” Hudson says approvingly, his mouth full.

  I chew. Hudson’s right—baloney really is good.

  He smiles at me. “You love it.”

  There’s no denying it as I take another bite, a bit of mayo dribbling down my chin which I quickly wipe away.

  We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes. I plan to only eat half of my sandwich; I gave up carbs a year ago and processed food when I was eleven. But if there was ever a time to break food rules, it’s when you’re being held hostage and could get shot at any minute for having a cell phone.

  When I’m done I lean back and groan. “That was incredible but I think my stomach might explode.”

  “That is one of the dangers of baloney,” Hudson says, putting both our plates in the sink. He does it naturally, like he’s just some regular guy trained by his mom, not someone so rich he can have people wait on him hand and foot. “Do you think they have—”

  A sharp voice interrupts him. “Everyone come to the living room.”

  I realize I’ve been lulled by our conversation, allowed myself to forget for just a few minutes what’s going on around us. But now a third agent appears in the doorway and she sounds serious. I stand up, my body tensing.

  “Now,” she says.

  The sandwich is turning into a ball of cement in my stomach and Hudson’s cheeks have lost their reddish hue. He looks pale under the lights as I follow him out of the kitchen and back to the living room where The Assassin is telling everyone to sit. My classmates are mostly there, sitting up straight as though we are about to take a final. It’s funny to think that less than twenty-four hours ago finals were our biggest worry.

  “We haven’t found Ariel,” The Assassin says, his words clipped. “Which can only mean one thing. You helped her or you’re helping her now, keeping her concealed from us. She is somewhere on the property, that we know for sure, and so I’ll ask one more time. Where is Ariel?”

  A terrible silence follows. I put my hands on my bloated stomach, afraid I might puke.

  “You need more incentive I see,” The Assassin says after a minute, his voice compressed fury. “And so we will give it to you.” His upper lip curls as he pauses and I can feel his eyes boring into me, to the others, through his shades.

  Bile gathers at the back of my throat.

  “It’s simple,” he says, his voice a blade of steel. “You have until midnight to tell us where she is. If we don’t have her by then, someone in this room will be shot.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Ariel

  “Do you want water?” Milo asks. Usually I keep a glass on the shelf over my bathroom sink but it got smashed when my room was ransacked.

  “No,” I say. I clear my throat, which is still tender. “Milo, thanks for coming and holding my hair and stuff.” I’m feeling more together and can now appreciate not having hair covered in puke.

  But Milo frowns. “My name isn’t Milo.”

  Oh.

  “It’s Nico.” He looks at me, his brow furrowed. “I’ve worked for you for three years and you don’t even know my name?”

  I try to shrug it off. “I was c
lose.”

  “Really?” he asks and for the first time his voice isn’t ringing with honesty and goodness. It’s ringing with sarcasm.

  I suck in a breath. I hate to eat crow but I know it’s not optional. “I’m sorry,” I say, looking at him instead of looking at the floor, which I’d prefer.

  “People matter and their names matter,” he says with deep conviction.

  I let out a long impatient breath. But he is my only ally and I can’t have him angry at me. “Yes, people matter and their names matter,” I say through gritted teeth. “Nico is a wonderful name.”

  “It means victory of the people.”

  I snort, then see he’s looking wounded again. “Oh, that’s really cool.” I don’t sound that sincere but he lets it pass.

  “Yeah, it definitely inspires me,” he says. “My mom said she chose it because the first time she held me she knew she wanted more for me, not just a life farming or slaving away making minimum wage, but doing something meaningful that helped people.” His smile is tinged with sadness that somehow has me talking before I think.

  “My mom named me Ariel because it means lioness of God,” I say. “She wanted me to be strong.”

  My mom was weak, both physically and mentally, and I think she hoped I’d manage the world a little better than she did in her short life.

  “That’s really powerful,” Nico says solemnly.

  Why am I telling him stuff like this? I never even think about my mom, let alone talk about her. “It’s not like it means anything. I mean, here you are working a minimum wage job and helping hold a group of high school students hostage so someone can get rich off my dad’s company. Not exactly a victory for the people.”

  His whole body seems to fold in. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “You said that before.” I am finally feeling well enough to stand up, though my stomach feels lined with acid.

  “The people trying to get money from your dad’s company found out about us before they came and tried to recruit us to help,” he says, leaning back against the pink bathroom wall. He looks out of place in his fatigues. “Most people agreed to help for the money. But those of us who refused at first—they had other incentives for us.”

  I don’t think I want to know anymore.

  “My dad is here illegally,” he says. “He works for a family in Greenwich and if he gets reported to immigration, he’ll be deported. I could go home to El Salvador but he can’t. He was too outspoken in his politics and he made enemies in the government. If he goes home he will be killed.”

  He says it simply but the hollowness in his voice tells me how much he has thought about this, how trapped he feels.

  “I had no choice but to agree,” he says. “But I figured I’d do what my dad did back home and work from the inside to see if I could make a difference.”

  “So helping me is a difference?” I thought his motive was a crush on me but a political motive is even better—more conviction. I take a moment to drink some water, my hands cupped under the faucet. It tastes divine.

  “It’s a starting point,” he says. “What they’re doing is wrong and I want to help stop it.”

  “Great,” I say.

  “So you will help?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Obviously.” Anything that stops this early will help Abby. In fact I realize now is the time to tell him about Abby.

  He shakes his head before I can speak. “I don’t mean just to save yourself. I mean, will you help to stop this, to save everyone if you can, even if it means making sacrifices?”

  “Yes.” I’m surprised that it stings to learn that he thinks I’m a spoiled brat who would leave everyone to die if she could save her own skin doing it, but whatever. I’m not telling him about Abby.

  “There are a few of us on the inside,” he says, suddenly sounding professional. “I think it’s better if you don’t know who they are. But we can help.”

  “Can you get a phone?” I ask. That would be the easiest and quickest way to end this.

  But Nico shakes his head. “All phones are locked away in the office. None of us has access.”

  “That sucks,” I say, thinking how much a phone could have helped.

  “But there are still things we can do. And we need to see which of the hostages will help.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Who do you trust?” he asks simply.

  “Sera.”

  Wait, did I really just say the name of the biggest backstabber of all time? But as I think about it, I realize it’s true. I know everyone downstairs pretty well. And there’s only one person I am certain would do everything she could to stop anyone else from being hurt.

  “I’m not sure we can stop the killing at midnight,” Nico says, running a hand through his short black hair. “But—”

  “Wait, what killing?”

  His eyes are filled with sadness. “I wasn’t thinking,” he says softly. “You wouldn’t know. They are looking for you, the agents.”

  I nod, suddenly feel the acid again, burning into my stomach lining.

  “They have threatened your classmates. If you are not found by midnight, one of them will be shot.”

  Somehow he knows what this information will do to me because his arms are reaching for me before my legs even give out. He lowers me slowly, gently to the floor. Maybe he doesn’t just think I’m a spoiled brat.

  I look at the clock. It’s 11:03. Less than an hour until someone dies.

  I lean my head back and close my eyes. How can I keep hiding?

  “I need to turn myself in,” I say. I feel the wave gathering power at my feet, ready to sweep me off. “I can’t let someone die because of me.”

  “You can’t turn yourself in,” he says.

  “Why not?” I ask, turning to look at him. His eyes are light brown, like honey in the sun. “How can I put my life over theirs, say my life matters more, that I deserve to live while one of them dies?”

  The words burst out of me because in my heart I don’t believe I do. There are some pretty good people down there, people who want to be like Nico, make the world better and stuff. Ella wants to be a doctor and work for Doctors Without Borders—she even interned in their New York office this summer. Mike wants to be a diplomat and Cassidy wants to be an attorney who prosecutes people who hurt children, something she will be amazing at. And what goals do I have? Not any really.

  “That’s not what it’s about,” Nico says. His features are broad, his eyes deep set and his face round. I thought he was plain-looking but in this moment I see a beauty in his face. “You’re a distraction for the agents. That’s what we need, distractions. Because that’s when things slip by them and they make mistakes. Those moments are our only real opportunities to do something.”

  “So I need to stay alive to be a distraction?” I ask.

  He smiles and his face shines. “You’re a lot more than that, but yes, for now we need you to be a distraction.”

  He reaches over and smoothes a lock of hair out of my face. It’s a moment when another guy would lean in and kiss me but I can see now that that is not Nico’s intention, in fact I don’t think it ever would be. He doesn’t have a crush on me at all. He just likes me as a person. And that has me feeling weak in the knees the way a crush never does. Because it means he doesn’t see me as something he can own or use. He just sees me, Ariel.

  “Abby’s coming here tomorrow,” I blurt out.

  His face falls, he totally gets it. “What time?”

  “Noon.”

  He nods, thinking. “Then we have to get this taken care of before noon.”

  I could hug him, though obviously I won’t. “That would be great,” I say instead.

  He smiles. “Abby has a real green thumb.”

  I suddenly remember that sometimes my little sister hangs out in the garden with Nico “helping” him plant things. I never thought a lot about it but it is awfully nice of him to let her play when he is trying to get work done.


  We hear footsteps in the hall and we both scramble to our feet.

  “Quickly,” he breathes, and I sprint to the fireplace.

  Once I am in he sets the grate behind me. “I will go to Sera,” he whispers. “To see if she will help.”

  And then he is gone.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sera

  After The Assassin stalks out a few people start crying. Ella appears on the verge of collapse and Mike is hugging her, patting her back. A couple of agents stand in the doorway of the hall that leads to the kitchen and two sit on the sofas, guns casually resting on their laps.

  I look at the clock above the fireplace. It’s 11:03. We have fifty-seven minutes before—I put my head down on my knees, unable to complete the thought.

  “Are you okay?” Hudson asks, and I feel his hand rest gently on my back. “I mean, obviously not but you know what I mean.”

  He thinks I am upset about the fact that one of us will die at midnight. Which I am, of course. But it’s so much more. I know where Ariel is. If they haven’t found her yet there’s only one place she could be and that’s the tunnels. But how could I tell them that? Yet if I don’t, someone, possibly me, will be shot. I feel like my head is going to split open.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  I don’t want to tell him. It’s enough that I’ve burdened him with the phone when I barely even know the guy. Though on the other hand, I’m not sure I can handle it alone. I sit up, as always careful to keep my arm with the phone turned in.

  “You’re scaring me.” Hudson is looking at my face closely and he rests his hands on top of mine. For whatever it’s worth, in this moment he really does know me.

  I take a deep breath and glance around to make sure no agents are nearby. “I know where Ariel is.”

  Hudson gives out a low whistle and sits back. “Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s a lot of information to have.”

  “Too much. I feel like I have to choose between Ariel or one of the hostages, maybe even me, and I just can’t decide because—”

  Hudson pats my hand softly and I realize I am talking a mile a minute and my face is heating up.